


White Evening Sun

by andysmmrs



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Also I'm sorry for whatever that description is, But Please Be Gentle, Constructive Criticism Welcome, I almost forgot, If anyone's out of character I'm so sorry, Implied mental illness (depression), It's technically a songfic, M/M, Modern AU, Recreational Drug Use, Songfic, There also might be formatting issues?, band au, first work in this fandom, god help me, i'm learning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-05-12 18:11:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19234447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andysmmrs/pseuds/andysmmrs
Summary: Pearlscale is on their second tour of the UK after an extremely successful stint in the United States. Their album has been on the top of the charts for weeks, especially one song in particular.Unbeknownst to even the most devoted of fans, however, this song has a special meaning to its author, John Bridgens, the oldest member of the band, the guitarist, and most experienced musician. He had planned to keep the secrets of the song's meaning close to his chest, but as more and more people become touched by the song, more people want answers as to who the song is about. Theories and rumors spread.





	1. The Writing Process

From the looks of things, by the time Tom had arrived at the studio, John had already been there for some time, at least two or three hours. He had been sitting down on the sofa in the recording studio, the old notebook that had already produced hits that had made them famous in the UK and in America held in his hands, written in down to the last few pages. There was a new composition that, for some reason, John had asked him to come and take a look at. And so he had, skimming the lines, essentially poetry at this point, wondering if he had stumbled upon another one of John’s genius moments.

“I think it’s good, actually. Really, really good.” Tom Hartnell wasn’t one to gush, and so John took the compliment for honesty, accepting it with a small smile and a nod of his head. “Have you got a tune to it yet?”

“Yes,” John reached for his guitar, which had been unceremoniously propped up against the sofa in the recording studio. He had been picking through different choices of melody until he felt the melancholy tone he had built was organic enough, true to the words he had found for it. “I had the tune as soon as I had the words.”

He plays for Tom, singing his own words, which he had never quite become accustomed to, having had the protection of Harry's voice speaking for him for so long. Tom listens as he plays, a contemplative look on his face. John finishes the song, and it’s a while before Tom speaks at all.

“Who’d you write that about?” he asks, head resting in his hand. 

John had been expecting the question, and yet still found himself unprepared when it had been asked. He hadn’t come up with any sort of excuse or explanation as an answer to that question, and so he had decided that less was more in this case, and so he shrugged.

“No one. It’s just a song.” he lies. 

And it’s unsatisfying, deeply. John can see it on Tom’s face, a small attempt at obscuring the expression as he sits back in his chair, and then rises, going over to his drum kit. Tom signals for John to start the song over, and so he does, playing it all over, and singing in that deep and almost monotone voice. John certainly was no singer, but he was almost glad for it, he knew his voice wouldn’t betray the true motivation behind the song. He had sat down to pen it only hours ago, but this tune had been in his head much longer, its origins far from him now, but still so close to him that if he closed his eyes as he sang it was almost as if he could feel the heat of the Arizonian sun beating down on the back of his neck, making the ground miles ahead of him raise and shake in a mirage. He could smell the chlorine of the hotel pool wafting up to their balcony, mingling with the smell of cigarettes and the gritty coolness of the desert at night. If he really tried, John could remember how the starchy sheets on the king-sized mattress felt as he grabbed a fistful for each hand, and the taste of alcohol from another man’s mouth. All things that were months in the past, untouchable and so horribly wonderful that he could not help but dwell on them.

If these memories were so palpable despite their being untouchable to him, not yet gone from the forefront of his mind, it was not for a lack of trying. He wasn’t naive, and he was old enough to understand the reason it was wiser to leave such lovely things in the past. After they had both conferred that it was nothing, that it had meant nothing, John suspected that Harry had done his part in forgetting the whole thing. There was a small part of him that held out hope that perhaps this was not the case, though, that the man that had held John’s imagination and affections captive for months was longing for John as ardently has he had longed for him, and was simply a better pretender. This hope was wasted. John had accepted that, and so he had resolved to explore and hopefully expunge this dreadful adoration from himself entirely through writing it all down. It had worked in the past, and so he had bet the rest of his pride on it working now. 

Tom was a natural, and so the rest of the song came together quickly, after he had picked a rhythm to match John’s playing. Keeping something so essential to the soul of the song from who was becoming the chief collaborator was strange to John. More than strange, it seemed dishonest, which was unfair to a man like Tom, who had, in the past, freely bared his soul to his band mates for the sake of the art. He excused his own dishonesty, however, prioritizing his own coping over an element to this song that Tom would most likely do just fine without. Besides, Tom seemed proud of the project nonetheless, and so by the time Collins and Harry had arrived at the studio, the song the two of them had to share with the pair was already on its way to being a hit. 


	2. Top of the Charts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's song gets a music video, and fans begin to theorize.

Harry leaned against a table in the kitchen of an old farmhouse, looking into the camera with a wistful stare as he sang. Anyone watching may have forgotten for a moment that he wasn’t speaking directly to them, but, according to the narrative of the music video, a girl that he had fallen for. The rest of the band stands off to the side as the director films in segments, the pre-recorded song playing in the background to aid Harry in his lip-syncing. Collins and Tom joke amongst themselves, wondering if the band hadn’t taken off, would Harry have gotten into acting or modeling. John watches with his arms crossed, an uneasiness about him. He looks over the set, wondering if the song has taken on any meaning to Harry. More specifically, if Harry had realized what John had been writing about yet. If he had, he was hiding it.

John had expected this to feel more therapeutic, and less like he had just opened his chest and exposed his heart for anyone who would look and see. He had never written something quite so personal before, and he was now in a battle with himself to rationalize this video they were making that seemed like sacrilege. Maybe they should have gone with something more simple, like they had for Tom’s song. Just a video of them performing, instead of creating some narrative for the song. That had been Harry’s idea.

“I think it’s got a good story to it,” Harry had argued, when John had first protested the idea of an involved video. “besides, you already said it’s not a personal song, so what’s the problem?” 

The irony was disarming, and so John lost that battle. And so here they were. The girl they had picked for the video was gorgeous, long blonde hair, and very friendly. John resisted the jealousy taking root in his stomach watching them interact as they filmed for the video. He could have stopped this, really, it was his doing that any of this was happening at all. He could have left it behind him, but he just couldn't leave it alone. He excused himself, knowing he wouldn’t be needed for the video, and went outside for a cigarette.

-

The band’s first impressions of the song proved to be correct. It went to No. 1 in America and the UK almost immediately after the music video dropped. The music video itself had probably aided in its success, as that was what most of the press had been referencing. 

It began with shots of an empty farmhouse, the camera finally panning across the kitchen where it met Harry, already looking solemn, as if caught in a memory he’d rather be reliving than facing whatever he was left with in the present.

_ I’m so tired of moving on, spending every weekend so far gone… _

He reaches a hand up to run it through his hair, slowly, holding the audience’s gaze for a moment before the camera begins to pan away from him, looking towards the kitchen window as the camera shifts its focus to the field outside.

_ Heatwave, nothing to do, woke up in my clothes having dreamt of you. _

It’s after this line that the song picks up. The video melts into the next scene, which the audience is guided to imagining is in the past for the protagonist, Harry. He’s with a girl, and they seem to be in love. It could be considered slightly convoluted, if a person wasn’t following the video too closely, as it quickly switches between past and present. That much made sense, though, for a song about introspection into some lost love. The bridge is where a line in the song is brought to the audience’s attention before fading into the next verse,

_ And otherwise, if only sometimes, would you give it up, green eyes? _

There’s a close up on the girl’s face. The audience is meant to think that she is Green Eyes, the song is about her. It certainly seemed that way, hadn’t it? But as the line is said, the camera switches to Harry’s eyes, and the audience is reminded that by no coincidence, Harry’s eyes are also green.

-

The meaning of the song had already been the subject of discussion to most fans. Early interviews about the song gave no answers, every time the meaning had been brought up someone would brush it off.

“Everyone’s been asking that, so far. I think the lyrics speak for themselves. It tells a story, doesn’t it?” This had been Harry’s initial response, but it wasn’t the answer that people wanted.

Tom hadn’t helped the obsession, either. Although it surely wasn’t his intention, he had only added fuel to the fire where he said - in a live interview, no less - that people wouldn’t get the answer they wanted because they weren’t asking the right question.

“People don’t like that answer because they already know what it’s about, what they really want to know is  _ who _ the song is about.” 

“And who is the song about?” the interview had quickly retorted, hoping that Tom’s blasé attitude as he mused about questions and things was indicative of a lack of secrecy that might tell them what they really wanted to know.

The interviewer’s hopes were soon dashed. Tom shrugged.

“It’s not about anyone.”

-

The lack of response from the man who had actually written the song was not lost on any fan. Comments sections were soon swarming with disgruntled fans. Many had pointed out that the one answering the least questions about the song had been the man that had actually written the song. As theories began to solidify, there were certain facts that the fans had to contend with. 

The first of these was that John Bridgens himself was a man that many considered to be “ambiguously gay”. He had never out and out said that he was gay, but, to be fair he had never been directly asked by any interviewer about his sexuality. It was simply a matter the fans had all agreed on. John was gay. He just was. If he had written a love song, music video be damned, the song was about a man. But what man would John Bridgens be writing about? He had never had any public relationships that could be contributed to the song. In fact, it seemed like John spent more time with his band mates in and out of the studio than anyone else. 

And that was the light-bulb moment. After this realization, the rest of it fell together easily. Whether or not most media sights would post about it - and they most likely wouldn’t, the question of John’s sexuality hadn’t been particularly interesting to anyone outside of the more hardcore fan groups - and whether or not John would ever admit to it, the fans that had agreed on this theory felt like they knew the truth. The song was about Harry. The question for these fans now was if Harry knew who he was singing about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was gonna literally type out what my ideas were for what some people had been commenting but I decided that looked cheesy but I still thought they were kinda funny so I'll post them here:  
> “i only think it’s interesting that everyone answering these questions except for the guy who WROTE the damn song lmaooo"  
> "they’re really not gonna let John answer the question about his own song"  
> "it's about harry lol y'all really blind af huh"  
> "LET. JOHN. SPEAK."  
> "interviewer said fuck john and collins rights"


	3. How About a Telephone Interview?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Collins compels himself to stick around for an after-party, and ends up scheduling a one-on-one telephone interview. The first of his career.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's gonna be some drug use in this chapter, and brief implications of mental illnesses (depression) so I just wanted the reader to be aware of that going into this so they aren't caught unawares!

It had been a month and a half since the music video had been released, and they had started their UK tour. The rest of the album was a mixed effort between John, Harry, and Tom. Collins didn’t contribute much by way of writing. Not noticeably, anyway. Besides small rewrites and suggestions, he left much of the writing to the other three in the band. He was a fine bass player, anyway, so anything he lacked in the way of collaboration could be made up for in the way he found a rhythm, and how he could work with Tom’s drumming to keep a song steady. He had never felt out of place or unneeded in the band, nor did he feel underappreciated. He expected the attention of the fans and interviewers to gravitate towards the lead singer, or the guitarist. There was a stereotype associated with bass players. Quiet, maybe moody, not necessarily, but certainly the least sociable of the group. 

He was these things, sure, but he felt like there must’ve been more to him. No man was just made up of two or three things, was he? It was just that he felt so tired most days. Anything was a chore. Getting dressed, showers, even recording songs. That part was what really annoyed him. He loved being in the band. He knew he loved it, but it was often that he felt like it would be easier just to stay in bed. 

But he couldn’t stay in bed his whole life, so he compels himself to get out of bed, and go record, and talk to people. He talks to his band mates, an old friend from college, his mother, people he loves. Or he listens while they talk to him. That makes it easier for a little. He can distract himself from how tired he is. He can get lost in a story Billy or Tom is telling him, and he feels like he’s getting involved without it being a chore.

Touring is a necessary evil. It can be chaotic and disorganized, but that’s how you sell albums. And the rest of the band loves touring. Or they seem to love touring. It’s hard but he has to remind himself that he cannot guess what is in other men’s heads. John’s been distant on this one, though. Acting more like Collins than Collins has been, recently. John’s become what Collins could be if he didn’t compel himself. He doesn’t talk much, he arrives late to shows - not too late, but when arriving early was regular for the man, any sort of tardiness is attention grabbing - and he leaves early. Collins wonders where he goes.

Collins sticks with Tom and Harry when they go back to their hotel room for the afterparty, where he partakes in another necessary evil of touring. He doesn’t remember when cocaine had become commonplace backstage at shows, it must’ve been a roadie or something that had introduced it to the band. He doesn’t do a lot, but he does the most out of the three of them. He always did, but he minds the suggestions from Tom that maybe he ought to slow down. He does after another line or two, and he’s feeling nice and warm now, so he gets up off the sofa the three of them had been sprawled across, still sweating and tired from what had been one of the more high-energy shows of the tour. He loses his coat somewhere on the way to the window from the sofa and when he gets to the window he cranks it open, leaning out so far he might fall out of it. 

They’re on the seventeenth floor, and the street below him looks like a toy model, lights making everything burn a warm orange color. The night air is cool on his face and he feels a shout building up in him until he hears it in his ears, along with the rush of wind and the blood rushing through his head. He lets it ring out, a long resounding  _ WHOOOOOOOOOP! _ , letting himself feel some excitement for a minute for the fact that he was on tour, famous, and on the seventeenth floor of some five-star hotel, and he was alive. He feels like climbing out the window and onto the ledge. If he did, he might be able to fly. But a voice calls him away from his plans of flight.

“Mister Collins?” 

He knows that voice. He spins around, smile still there on his face. As he suspected. Harry Goodsir, columnist for Noiz!, a leader in news for anything in music from rap to metal. He had been to a few of their shows in the past, even following them to America for the tail end of their tour in the states. To Collins, he was a sort of man who always seemed out of his depth, not that he was or wasn’t, but the man seemed to wear confusion and concern on his face like a woman would wear lipstick. He’s never seen Collins high before, but Collins is certain it’s obvious enough, anyway. Harry’s constantly around rockstars, that’s his job. He knows a high when he sees one. That doesn’t keep Collins from stumbling over to him, anyway, caught up in that euphoria still, and wrapping Goodsir in a tight hug.

“Harry Goodsir! Been too long! You followed us to America, and we haven’t been able to talk since, have we?” He releases the columnist who returns a patient smile, stumbling to regain proper footing, as Collins had unintentionally taken him off of the floor in the hug. 

“No, we haven’t- That’s actually why I came over. I was going to ask you if you would be feeling up to an interview.” There was a tone in his voice that acknowledge that no, no Collins would not be. A slight annoyance that makes Collins both guilty and offended.

Collins tries to reassure him that an interview now would be fine, but Goodsir repeatedly tells him that it’s fine, he can get something from Tom or Harry to use in the column. Collins doesn’t know why, but in that moment, it’s very important for him to be the one Goodsir hears. He grabs him by the shoulders as he’s trying to turn to go. Collins finds himself spitting the truth out, through the high. Anything he can say in that moment to get Goodsir to consider him worth hearing. 

“Sometimes it’s like I’m doing the same thing over and over. But it doesn’t ever get easier.” Collins feels like an idiot for saying anything, but he's stuck there now that he's said it, staring at Collins with some hope of understanding, despite everything.

Goodsir is quiet for a long time. There's that look of concern. Or maybe it's pity. Collins can't tell in the light. 

"How about a telephone interview? I can call tomorrow morning, if you’re still feeling up to it. Does ten work for you?”

It’s a mercy. He knows that, but he’s appreciative of it, anyway. He hopes to God he’ll remember to wake himself up, if he manages to sleep at all. 

“That’ll work.”

The columnist nods, patting Collins’ hand, which Collins now notices is still gripping his shoulder. He lets go, and Harry goes to leave. 

“Thank you, Harry.”

“That’s no trouble at all, Mister Collins.”


	4. Polite Conversation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Collins and Goodsir have an over-the-phone interview.

Collins was surprised at himself when he woke up to the alarm he had set for nine-thirty that morning. He was surprised that he had set an alarm at all - surprised and confused. He had forgotten the telephone interview he would be giving in half an hour’s time, but the memory came to him quick enough. He rises out of the hotel bed, walking over to his phone, sitting down beside the outlet in the wall and unlocking it. He checks the news, like he does every morning. He kills time until he realizes he never gave Harry his number. No matter, he looks Harry up, and sure enough, there’s a link to his own website, where he’s published some of his writings, and then contact information. He checks the time again. It’s ten, now, which is the time they scheduled, anyway. He’s sure he won't be an imposition, so he calls the number. 

Goodsir sounds like he’s forgotten about the whole thing as soon as he answers the phone. That’s the first thing Collins recognizes, he knows the tone of voice a person takes when they’re being bothered, but trying to be polite about it. He should’ve just slept in. There’s no point in letting the feeling linger now that he’s made the phone call though, because hanging up would only be worse.

“It’s Collins, Henry Collins,” he introduces himself twice, and there’s a shuffling of papers or something like that that can be heard on the other end of the line. He assumes Goodsir remembers the interview he’s supposed to be giving, now, and a part of him wonders if he just introduced the idea of it to get Collins off of his back. 

“Mister Collins! Right! How are you? Are you feeling well?”

Compared to last night? His head’s been throbbing and he’s surprised he’s not thrown up yet. He’s been much worse off, but nausea is pooling in his stomach and threatening to send him sick all over the hotel carpet at any second.

“I’m fine.” and somewhere in the back of his head there's a part of Collins that hopes Goodsir knows what he really means when he says that. It’s closer to a  _ “Well, y’know, I’m not dead yet,” _ than it is to what the word was meant for.

“Excellent! Let’s see, last night was just the start of your UK tour, and this is Pearlscale’s second time through home country, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but we’re very used to playing in England, especially in London,” his reply came easier than usual in face-to-face interviews. “There’s always a comfort, playing in London, because that’s where we first started playing in pubs and things like that. We feel like we’ve got a lot of fans here that’ve been with us from the beginning.” 

He’s nodding as he speaks, standing up slowly, closing his eyes as he sucks in a quiet breath, leaning against the wall, trying to ignore the sick feeling standing gave him. He’s not going to crawl to the balcony. He’s not that hungover. Suddenly, he realizes he’s missed a question.

“Sorry, what was that?” he asks, sinking down to the floor. His stomach is in knots. Maybe he will crawl to the balcony. 

“How do tours abroad compare to tours at home? How are they alike, how are they-”

“They’re alike in a lot of ways,” his voice is breathless and comes out in a rasp, he tries to tell himself that it always sounds that way and it’s nothing Goodsir will pick up on. He’s halfway to the sliding door of the balcony, on his hands and knees. Well, hand and knees. This three-legged shuffle isn’t easy, he feels a bit red in the face and wonders if walking would have been easier in the end. “The energy’s always great no matter where the show is, though, because of the fans and because Harry’s such a great showman - John too, has his moments, and then Tom…” he pushed the glass door open, holding the phone away from his face as he talks, hoping that’ll stop his breathing from being picked up so well. “Tom’s got that sincere quality about him that- Ow! Fuck!” 

He sits up on his feet quick as anything and jerks his hand back up from the pavement on the balcony. There’s a sharp little pebble impaled in his hand, not very big, but big enough to cause quite a lot of pain. He scoots the rest of the way out onto the balcony on his knees and pulls the door shut, rubbing his hand on his chest until the pebble dislodges.

“Are you alright, Mister Collins?”

“Yes, yes, I’m alright. There was- I got…” he stares ruefully at the little red impression the pebble’s left. “Impaled.”

“Impaled?” there’s confused concern from the other line, but also a hint of humor that Collins took as a small comfort. Maybe if Harry sees the humor in this, he's not being such a bother.

“I was crawling on my hands and knees to the damn balcony, and there was a pebble. I didn’t see it and then suddenly it was in my hand.” He finds the humor himself as he tells the story, shaking his head. 

“Have you made it to the balcony?” There’s a definite smile to Harry's tone, at least. 

“I’ve successfully cleared the room, and I’m on the balcony now, yes.” He pulls a chair from the small table out and sits down. 

“Why were you crawling?”

“I don’t reckon you’ve had many days where you wake up in the state I have, have you, Harry?” The assessment isn’t meant to be an insult, or even a challenge, and so he hopes Goodsir doesn’t take it to be one. Goodsir’s reply reassures Collins.

“Thankfully I have not.” There’s something in his voice, like he’s keeping himself from asking a question. Collins waits for him to work out if he wants to ask it as he catches his breath. “There was something you said to me last night. It was … discomforting. Do you remember?”

Collins is quiet for a while. Goodsir’s voice cuts through on the other line to ask him if he’s still there.

“I remember.” That’s not a sentiment he wanted to think about just now, he was feeling good this morning. Better on this morning than most. But it had been what Collins offered up as the hook for this entire interview. But that doesn’t mean he wants it published. “I don’t want… Do you have to publish it if I talk about it?” 

“Not at all. We can go off-record, if that makes you more comfortable.”

Comfortable. He thought that was a funny word to use, but it made sense. Most reporters had to work under a delicate balance of making people comfortable, but comfortable enough to crack open about uncomfortable things. He tries to think back on different interviews he’s read that Goodsir’s done on other people, but he ends up remembering the interview Tom gave after his brother had passed away. It was the bravest thing he’d seen anyone in the band do in a long time. Tom seemed to have little issue talking about the most painful parts of it, taking breaks when he needed to, composing himself, but otherwise being incredibly candid. John had asked Tom how he did it, after the interview had been finished, and they were all alone in Tom’s apartment again, and Tom had simply replied that it helped him to think less about how he felt giving the interview, and more about how someone else might feel reading the interview, someone that needed to know they weren't alone in what they were feeling, that even rock stars felt those things.

Collins didn’t feel like he could ever be so selfless, but perhaps he could try.

 “Never mind. Just don’t change my words or anything.” He makes himself think about something other than this conversation on the cover of a magazine as soon as the words leave his mouth.

“Of course, Mister Collins. Can you tell me more about what you meant when you said…” Goodsir trails off, as if there’s an unspoken reverence in the statement, like repeating it so plainly would be betraying something.

“It’s hard to get up most mornings. I set an alarm, sometimes that helps, sometimes it doesn’t. Doing anything feels like a chore.” He wants it to be a stream of consciousness, that’s what he thinks will be the most honest, but so far, to him it sounds like a lot of complaining. He hopes Goodsir sees more to it than that. He continues.

“Even if it’s something I enjoy doing. The terrible thing is I’ve felt like this for so long there’s parts of me that wonder if I really like doing it, or if it’s just me telling myself I like to do it, because I’ve got to do something. I can’t just stay in bed. Even though I want to.” 

“How long have you felt like this?” Goodsir’s voice is thoughtful. Henry can hear him write something down in a quick scribble.

“I don’t know. Years. I dunno when it started. Sometimes different things help. Listening to people helps. Talking about it helps, but it comes back.” Collins felt better talking about it now, although there was the inherent anxiety there that came with any interview. And then of course he ended up reminding himself that this was an interview. Just an interview. It wasn’t like when he talked with Billy, or Tom, or anyone else for that matter. 

“Have you ever seen anyone for this?” There was a different tone to Goodsir’s voice. He couldn’t place what it meant. Incredulousness, maybe?

“Seen someone? Like a therapist?” He felt stupid for asking, but the way he felt had been something he had been minimizing for so long that the suggestion that he seek professional help sounded outlandish. Like an overreaction.

“That’s the most common treatment for depressive states.” Coming from anyone else, that might have come off as patronizing. From Harry, it just seemed helpful. 

“I haven’t ever thought about it.”

“Why not?”

It just wasn’t something Collins could do. He wasn’t made for melancholy or sitting down in some fluffy chair and talking things through. If he had a problem he had to fix it himself. He had to figure it out, and he would, because that’s what a man did. Almost everything else in his life had been an easy fix. A few minutes of tinkering with some tools, and the problem is gone. But this dread that had been cast over him for what felt like infinity wasn’t something he could fix with his hands, and that was what had stopped him. 

“I dunno. Figured at some point it’d just get… easier.”

What a miserably hopeless thing to say. Collins wishes he would’ve said something else.

“It could. It does, you just need someone to give you the tools to do it.” 

Tools. How would he go about getting one, anyway? He could ask the manager. He'd probably get him one if Henry asked. And they'd keep it discreet, too. 

“I’ll consider it.” 

“Please do, Henry. I think it’d be good for you.”

He hears Tom waking up, groaning and throwing the blankets off of himself, already grumbling about the heat. He’d better get off the phone, or else Tom would start asking questions. 

“I gotta go, it was nice talking to you, Harry.” and then he hands up, stands up, sick feeling finally gone, and walks back into the hotel room. 


	5. Arizona

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some time ago there was Pearlscale's first American tour, and there was the wide expanse of the sky in Arizona, and two men in a motel room.

Arizona was the stop before the final frontier of California. They had left Nevada, their last show having been in Las Vegas, and now there was to be a show in Tucson, then one in Scottsdale, and the last two would be in Phoenix. John had been to America once before, but that was a long time ago, and he had kept on the East Coast, in New York. The desert landscape was unlike anything he had ever seen. Tom had insisted they see the Grand Canyon as they passed through, even if it were out of the way. John promised he would sort it out with the management. So far, even the most barren parts of the state had bewitched him. It was totally alien, the lack of anything other than ground and sky. The sunsets in particular were spectacular, the ground stretched upwards, and the horizon melted away as the colors of red and orange rock soon became the sky, burning away with the setting sun, erasing any sort of hard barrier. 

And it was cool at night, which was a blessing, because the heat of the day had been a slight concern at the time. Any intense weather was never great to perform in, certainly not the heat, and the days had been hot indeed.

They were staying at some motel, most of their budget for hotels having been used up earlier in the tour, but it was still a decent enough place. Independent and family owned, with a pool, water beds, A/C, and even color television! Or, that was what the sign displayed. They wouldn’t stay longer than a night, they were assured, but none of them minded it much. The group broke off into twos, Collins and Tom to one room, and John and Harry in another. They had arrived late into the afternoon, and John had planned on resting some, pulling off his coat and dropping down onto the bed with a groan. He closed his eyes, resting his head on his arm. He fell asleep, and when he woke up the sun was slipping down behind the mountains, and Harry was pacing around the room, arms crossed. He looked paranoid, almost, but John knew different. He sat up, turning on the bedside lamp to better illuminate the room which was getting steadily darker by the minute. 

“I’m bored.” came Harry’s voice, clipping through what had been a comfortably thick post-sleep silence. It was nearly a whine, but John found himself smiling, nonetheless.

“Read something.”

“But I haven’t brought anything. All there is to read here is the T.V. Guide. And the Bible.”

John rubs his face, trying to wake himself up some more. “That’s not a bad book, the Bible, if you’ve got to choose between that and a television-”

“I want to go for a walk.”

“To where? What time is it?”

John looks at his watch. “It’s seven. The pool closes at ten.”

He wants to go to the pool? John doubts he’s even brought a swimsuit, but he doesn’t ask him. John has a habit of indulging Harry. He shrugs. 

“Alright, let’s go.” 

The walk down to the pool is quiet, which surprises John. Usually when Harry asks him on walks he has something he wants to talk about. A question about songwriting, or a discussion about a book John’s recommended to him. This time, Harry says nothing, but gives John a polite smile whenever he looks over to him. Maybe the concern creeping into John’s mind is present on his face, because Harry seems to be trying to console him. They get to the pool which has been deserted, but not tidied up yet, there are towels scattered on chairs, and a soda can left on a table. John throws it away and Harry shucks off his shoes and socks, pushing his jeans halfway up his calves, going to the edge of the pool and sitting down. He pats the spot on the ground beside him and John sits down, cross-legged, keeping his feet out of the pool.

“Did you want to talk about something?” John studies Harry’s face, anticipating a lie, or a deflection of some sort. Harry’s in a secretive mood, and John can tell he’s holding something back, what he’s wondering now is why.

“How come you don’t ever bring home girls? From shows or anything, I mean?” Harry’s picking at his sleeve, not that there’s anything to pick at, but he’s trying very hard not to look at John, trying to have a reason not to look at John. He’s never seen Harry act this way. He seems like he’s trying to compensate for something. Like he’s embarrassed. 

“I’m not interested in women.” 

That’s not something John’s hidden for a long time. He’s already fought that battle with himself. What was strange to him was that while people seemed comfortable assuming things, playing guessing games about his sexuality, there had yet to be an interview where anyone had ever asked him. Maybe that was because the others were there. Maybe if he gave more independent interviews, the question would come up. When he was alone, it was something secret and scandalous to ask about. If he was with his bandmates, the questions was crass. It wasn’t something to talk about with people who weren’t involved within earshot. It was something to be commoditized. 

Either way, the response wasn’t a surprise to Harry, although he tried to play it off like it might be. 

“Oh.” Silence for a bit. He’s trying to reassemble the talking points in his head. He’s not ready to move on to the next one, so he rephrases the question. “Why don’t you bring home any men?”

“I’ve never met any that I was interested in.”

“What sort of man interests you?”

“Why?” John’s amused, now, firing back his question just as quick as Harry asked his. Harry makes a noise like he tries to speak too fast and it comes out as a jumble of uhms and Is and a sort of a “duh” noise. He falters and sighs and then he says,

“I think you’re beautiful.” 

Beautiful?  _ Harry  _ thought  _ he  _ was beautiful? It’s John’s turn now to avoid meeting Harry’s eyes, which was cruel to do, because Harry’s looking at him like John’s gaze is a lifeline. John’s thought himself many things over the years. Fair, kind, clever, when he was being generous with himself. Handsome? Even that seemed like a stretch to him. Beautiful was long, long down the list of words he’d use for himself. Beautiful was a word for younger men, men that could command rooms of people, who could charm perfect strangers by being themselves. Harry was beautiful. He had thought so for a while. He had really started noticing him when they were performing in small pubs, when the low lights in purple and white and orange would shine down on him as he sang and captivated the audience. Sometimes John would kid himself and think maybe he could see a halo above Harry’s head. He certainly was angelic enough. 

“Why?” He’s stuck, feeling like his insides are turning to stone, like he was freezing from the inside out. Harry’s never made him feel this way before, inadequate, and taken totally by surprise. Harry probably doesn’t even know he’s doing it, and John does not know if that makes it better, or worse. 

“Because you’re very…” 

His voice trails off and becomes a hum as he ponders on it. John wonders how many more times in this conversation they’re going to trade off between reaching for each other and shying away. Are they both shying away now? Harry decides he’ll be the brave one, and he takes John’s hand in his. 

“You’re very handsome. And you’re kind to me. You care about people, and you write such beautiful songs. You’re just… brilliant, y’know? Beautiful.” Harry studies John’s hand, turning it over, fingertips brushing over John’s skin to circle the tattoo on his arm. John pulls his hand back. Harry looks like he’s about to apologize, so John stops him.

“I think you’re beautiful too.” 

Harry looks back up to him excitedly, a smile breaking across his face. “No joke? Look at that! What a coincidence there, eh? How long were you gonna keep that from me, bastard?” He’s joking around, but the relief on his face is clear. He nudges John’s shoulder, and soon John’s smiling along with him. And then Harry kisses him.

It’s a pretty rough kiss, Harry’s teeth clack against his and although John doesn’t break the kiss, he does put both hands on Harry’s shoulder to steady him, guide him through the kiss. Harry’s quite eager, almost crawling into his lap then and there, so finally when Harry runs out of breath and stops for a second before attacking John’s neck with more kisses, John suggests that they go back to room. 

It’s dark by the time they get to the room, and dead quiet. Harry’s nervous in the silence of the room, and so he goes over to the desk in the room and pours himself a glass of the whiskey the manager had left in the room for them. Awful nice of them. He swallows the first glass quickly and doesn’t show much restraint with the second one. 

“You alright, Harry?”

 Harry doesn’t say anything, but he spins around and kisses him again, better this time, not so much teeth-knocking force, but it’s just as wet. He makes like he’s going to walk John backwards until he can lay on the bed with Harry on top of him, but at the last second he spins ‘round so he’s closer to the bed, and then pulls John on top of him. It’s surprising, and he doesn’t exactly topple over with grace, Harry has to move his head quick so his and John’s don’t clonk together, but he laughs it off and kisses him so John doesn’t have time to get embarrassed. He’s letting himself relax, feel more comfortable on top of Harry, undoing the first few buttons of Harry’s shirt and when he leans down to kiss him this time Harry mumbles something in John’s ear like “Don’t you dare try anything dry,” so John gets off of him, looking through his things for something to use.

“Haven’t done this in a while, not sure if I’ve-”

“I’ve got some. My jacket, leather one with the tiger on it, it’s got an inside pocket. Got whatever you need in it.” 

Whatever you’d need indeed, condoms, lubricant, wipes for… whatever you’d need them for, John supposes. Guess this is what Tom means when he talks about Harry’s “sex jacket”. He wonders for a second why he never asked more questions when Tom mentioned it in stories.

“Jesus, Harry-”

“Oh, he’s not got much to do with it, actually. Get over here.”

The sex is spectacular, in a word, although Harry’s quite loud and John has to remind him every few minutes that they’re in a motel, that the walls are thin. Harry’s apologetic about all the noise he’s making, and he’s prone to covering his face during the act, which is a shame because he looks absolutely gorgeous. His eyes are sparkling and his lips part so beautifully when he gasps, remembering to whisper this time as he says things that range from lovely proclamations of adoration to things that both shock and delight John, bringing a blush forwards. He might have even felt scandalized, to have a man like Harry saying things like that to him, but given the situation they’re in, he isn’t at all. Harry finishes first, which is satisfying, to John, to say the least, he thinks something not entirely far from the lines of  _ “still got it,” _ and he’s spent soon after. He’s tired, but he cleans himself up, and Harry lets him take the first shower. 

Once he’s in bed, clean and just about to drift off to sleep, he feels Harry’s weight next to him as he lays in bed beside him, putting his arms around John. 

“G’night, John. I-” Harry cuts himself off, he’s not sure he should say it, there’s almost a pause, but John doesn’t miss a beat, filling in the space for him.

“Love you too, Harry. Goodnight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never written smut before so I'm sorry if that took any years off your lives lmao.  
> Hopefully it wasn't too bad!!!

**Author's Note:**

> The real song this whole fic is based on/inspired by is "Heat Wave" by Snail Mail, off of her album Lush. The whole album is really really great and if you guys like this I recommend you check it out.


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